


After

by theDeadTree



Series: Hawke Stories [9]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Heavy Angst, M/M, So much angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-22 03:37:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9581192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theDeadTree/pseuds/theDeadTree
Summary: There was a decision, it was made. Fenris struggles to cope with the consequences.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, look. More angst-filled Fenhawke.
> 
> I'm not sorry.

A letter lay crumpled on the ground once again, after being screwed up and smoothed out countless times. Fenris had long since lost count of the number of times he’d read it since it arrived four days ago, each time carefully sounding out the words just as Garrett had taught him, trying to pick where he’d gone wrong. Convinced he’d somehow made a mistake, and kept making that same mistake every time he dared to try.

He paced back and forth, wringing his hands, eyes darting anxiously over his surroundings, watching closely for threats in every direction save for the one he knew he was being watched from.

Garrett tutted quietly as he leaned on the wall of the cave. “How much longer are you going to do this?”

Fenris shook his head and continued his agitated pacing, remaining adamantly silent. He shouldn’t be here. He didn’t _want_ to be here. Had it been up to him, he would be out there, continuing his hunt for a group of slavers he knew operated out of the area. He would do anything, anything at _all,_ if it meant he didn’t have to stop and think, even for just a moment.

As it happened, the weather had other plans.

Now it seemed the entire world was conspiring against him.

“Fenris.”

“Shut up,” the elf growled in response.

Garrett let out a long, exhausted sigh and ran a hand through his hair, glancing forlornly at the mouth of the cave, and the storm that raged beyond it, no trace of his usual humour.

“You should go back to Kirkwall. Talk to someone.”

“No.”

“Fen-”

_“No.”_

“Why not? What have you got left to lose?”

“What is there to _gain?”_ he snapped back furiously.

“…sanity?” Garrett suggested dryly after a small pause. “Aveline might be able to help. She’s good with this.”

“Since when has she cared?” Fenris bit back sourly. “Since when has _anyone_ cared?”

Garrett groaned loudly and rubbed his jaw, fingertips running over the heavy stubble – the beginnings of his beard growing back. Fenris remembered when he’d initially shaved it off, shortly after they first fled Kirkwall after the rebellion. Something about being less recognisable, he’d said at the time. Fenris wasn’t sure how exactly that was supposed to work; _he_ was there with him after all, and there was no hiding the lyrium branded into his skin. The more he thought about it now, the more he thought Garrett had just been looking for an excuse. Something he immediately regretted, given all the jokes everyone threw around about how the lack of a beard made Garrett look that much more like Carver.

“Or Sebastian,” he added somewhat distantly. “He’s helpful in these situations.”

“Stop trying to fix this.”

Garrett’s expression hardened at that. “I’m not trying to fix this. There’s nothing _to_ fix. I’m trying to help you _move on.”_

For so long, Fenris didn’t answer. There was nothing he wanted to say. He knew there was no point in having this conversation, again. He’d been dealing with the same roundabout argument for four days now. He was sick of it. He didn’t want to deal with it anymore.

“You’re not alone in this, you know,” Garrett himself murmured with a sigh. “You’re not the only one who cares.”

It didn’t feel that way to Fenris, though he didn’t bother to point that out.

“You can’t keep going like this,” Garrett pressed. “It’s not healthy.”

“I’d like to see you try to stop me.”

“Isn’t that kind of the point here?”

“What else am I supposed to do?”

“Anything, Fen. Literally _anything_ else would be more productive right now.”

“How is killing slavers not productive?”

“I don’t know about killing slavers. But it’s not about them, and you know it. This is about you trying to kill yourself.”

Fenris gritted his teeth. “To kill oneself is a sin in the eyes of the Maker,” he ground out.

He believed that.

He _had_ to believe that.

At first, he needed to know that there was _something_ worse than slavery, something worse than everything he’d been put through. Now…

He didn’t know anymore. This was never a position he expected to find himself in. This was never a hurt he thought he’d have to carry. He’d been in pain every day of his life for as long as he could remember, and yet, this was worse. It was so much worse. It wasn’t something he could push through and endure, like he was used to. There was no getting past this. There was no sense in trying, when every breath felt like knives in his chest.

Garrett rolled his eyes and threw his hands up into the air in defeat. “But if you die at the hands of some slaver, that’s fine, right? You don’t care what happens now. You stopped caring four days ago.”

“I. Do not. Need. Advice. From. _You,”_ Fenris snarled, carefully framing each word as he did nothing to conceal the growing heat in his tone. Pain flashed across his body as the lyrium instantly reacted – a dangerous warning sign to anyone who knew what he was capable of.

Garrett, meanwhile, watched on impassively, and didn’t so much as flinch. “I’m just saying, going on a lone suicide run against slavers possibly isn’t the best idea you’ve ever had. Just a thought.”

“They need to die.”

“And _you_ need to be the one to kill them? _You,_ specifically?”

“I don’t see anyone _else_ doing anything about it.”

“I seem to recall at least six years of a whole group of us doing something about it. And everything else.”

“And just look how _that_ ended,” Fenris argued. “So much for allies.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of _friends_ rather than _allies,_ but sure, Ser Broody Loner Elf. Continue to sulk up here in your damn cave and not talk to anyone. That always works out _so_ well. Not a one-way trip to complete and utter lunacy at all.”

“I’m _fine.”_

“You’re still talking to me, though. Probably a sign you’re not at all fine.”

“Stop it,” Fenris hissed as he pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to focus. “Just, _stop._ I have to do this. I have to do _something.”_

“So what’s next? Where does it _end,_ Fenris? You kill these slavers. Fine. Let’s say you track down and kill all the slavers and bandits in the Free Marches. What happens after that? Where do you go? Where else will your revenge quest take you? One day, you’ll run out of people to blame.”

For the longest time, Fenris stared adamantly at the ground, utterly refusing to meet Garrett’s harsh gaze. It was so pathetic, that he couldn’t face up to something as simple as Garrett’s quiet disapproval. How had he gotten to this point? How is it he was so concerned with what a _mage_ thought of him? How was it that he couldn’t shake himself from it, even now?

It didn’t matter anymore.

Nothing did.

“You can’t run forever. Sooner or later, reality will come back to bite you.”

Fenris stopped dead in his tracks, and let out a harsh shout of cynical laughter. “That is _rich_ coming from you.”

“And look how badly I got bitten,” Garrett replied airily, gesturing at himself. “Take it from someone who knows, Fen. Besides, would you still be here if I _had_ run? Would _any_ of this be happening if I had run? Something tells me _no.”_

That was true, and it made Fenris feel sick.

But no. Garrett had insisted going alone, on dealing with it himself. He wanted to finally face up to his problems and he didn’t want to risk Fenris getting hurt. He wished that hadn’t been the case. He wished that Garrett had kept running, like he always did. That he’d waited and allowed Fenris to go with him.

Bile welled up in his throat at the thought.

He wasn’t there.

He should have _been_ there.

“It’s not your fault,” Garrett murmured, gentle now. “It’s not _anyone’s_ fault. There was a decision, it was made. You have to accept that.”

“I don’t. I _won’t.”_

“Then you’ll die hating innocent people,” he pointed out quietly. “No one is to blame here. Not you, not Varric, not the Inquisitor, not _anyone._ You _know_ that. I wouldn’t even be _saying_ this if you didn’t.”

He was right, Fenris did know that.

He _hated_ knowing that.

“You can’t save everyone, Fen.”

“I don’t want to save _everyone,”_ Fenris whispered hoarsely as he mindlessly tugged at the red cloth wrapped around his wrist and stared blankly at the empty space where Garrett should’ve been. “Just you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Safe to say that Hawke does not, in fact, die in my personal canon (sorry Stroud), but I had to write this. For reasons. Also I'm a masochist.
> 
> I'm still not sorry.


End file.
